


Maybe the real skirts we were chasing were the ones we got for ourselves on the way

by what_a_dork_fish



Series: Gender Shmender [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Agender Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Character, Geralt is an enabler but it's for a good cause, M/M, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Questioning, who's agender? I will not say :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25127401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Jaskier confesses and Geralt accepts. Hopefully the other Witchers will too...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Gender Shmender [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827583
Comments: 32
Kudos: 123





	Maybe the real skirts we were chasing were the ones we got for ourselves on the way

**Author's Note:**

> I required this Very Specific plot so I wrote it. No apologies. Also I made myself laugh trying to think up a title.

“Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

“What would you say if I told you I’m… I’m not a man? Not all the time, at least?”

Geralt looked up from his medicine-making to blink at Jaskier. He looked nervous, but he smelled terrified, and his hands were tight on his lute, like a shield. Jaskier had never been terrified of Geralt before. It was baffling. Especially since Geralt had met more jarring things in his time than his decidedly male companion turning out to not be male at all times.

“I’d say I don’t care,” Geralt replied bluntly. “Do you want me to call you “she” sometimes?”

It was Jaskier’s turn to blink in surprise. And then he grinned, bright and excited. “Yes. I’ll let you know when it changes.”

Geralt nodded and went back to his medicines.

~

Jaskier was pretending to be inspecting the suit in the window, but Geralt saw how his eyes dragged constantly to the pretty dress next to it.

“Have you ever thought about just getting a skirt?” Geralt asked suddenly, but quietly. “One that matches the doublets you already have?”

Jaskier stared at him, then slowly began to grin as it dawned on him. “No. I’m going to ask right now.”

And he nipped into the tailor’s shop.

Geralt shook his head, but said nothing. One skirt and one petticoat shouldn’t take up too much space in their bags, should they?

~

Oh, what a fool he was.

Jaskier was not content with one skirt (although she did refuse more than one petticoat). No, no, since she always had two suits on her at all times, why not have two skirts to match? And then she decided to get at least one doublet that she could pad out a bit and make into a fashionable bust form. And then she wanted different underthings, like smocks and stockings.

Geralt wanted to protest, but the delight on Jaskier’s face when she wore pretty skirts (not, thank fuck, the kind of embroidered, expensive things a noblewoman might sport) was a solid argument against cutting down her load. She was… she was…

A few days later, Jaskier put the skirts away and said, “I’m a he, now.”

“Alright,” Geralt replied.

It switched off every few days for a while, and when Jaskier changed gender, Geralt did his best to keep up. It wasn’t really hard, just a bit confusing at first. For the winter, though, Jaskier put away her pretty things with a sigh and an expression of dread, and got ready to trudge to Oxenfurt.

Geralt didn’t think. He just grabbed Jaskier’s arm and said, “It’s early yet. The pass shouldn’t be too hard, for a human.”

The sunshine smile Jaskier gave him was worth the inevitable protecting Jaskier from Geralt’s brothers.

~

Vesemir was cautious, but relatively accepting, of Jaskier’s smile, firm handshake, and bright greeting. Geralt let out a quiet breath. With Vesemir accepting of Jaskier’s presence, the others would be easier to win over.

It was only a few days until Lambert and Eskel arrived, and Lambert immediately set to taunting both Jaskier and Geralt for being too sentimental to stay apart. Jaskier punched him at one point, breaking his nose and making Eskel laugh so hard he fell over. Geralt grinned and patted Jaskier’s shoulder gently.

The day after that, though, Geralt woke up to see Jaskier kneeling on the floor by his pack, holding a skirt in one hand and a pair of leggings in the other. When he heard Geralt sit up, Jaskier turned a little to look at him. Jaskier looked… scared. Lost, and scared, and like he was going to cry.

“What if they make fun of me?” he asked. “For being a woman, too?”

Geralt immediately got out of bed to walk over, kneel next to her, and hug her firmly. “Then I’ll stab them. You are who you are.”

Jaskier leaned on him and nodded, but she still smelled scared.

They agreed that Jaskier would wear her skirts, but not leave their room, and spend the day composing. Geralt would fetch her meals up to her. Geralt promised not to give her away, tightened his arms around her for a moment, then stood. Jaskier dug out her clothes, and when Geralt was dressed she had just finished pinning her skirt. Geralt looked at her for a moment, as she kept her back turned and put on her padded doublet. His heart lurched. Even just the line of her back was beautiful.

Beautiful?

He said, “Be right back,” and left the room, worried at his own thoughts.

The others were gathered around the table in the kitchen. Lambert was complaining loudly about the work yet to do on the keep, Eskel was calmly pointing out that it was better than practicing in a snowstorm, and Vesemir was eating with a very tired expression.

“Hey, where’s Jaskier?” Eskel asked, surprised, as Geralt filled two bowls with porridge and put some toast with cheese on a plate.

“Upstairs,” Geralt replied, still a little distracted. “She—he wanted to work on composing. Said something about quiet being important.”

“She?” Lambert repeated, sounding incredulous.

Geralt ignored him, and took the food upstairs.

Jaskier was at the unused desk, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she wrote at a furious pace. Geralt set her bowl and the plate next to her on the desk and sat on the edge of his bed, eating slowly and staring at the wall, frowning. He had often found himself beginning to think of Jaskier as extremely handsome, but had always shoved the thoughts away as soon as he recognized them. It was wrong to think like that about his… companion.

He needed to suppress these thoughts of her beauty, too. Even if glancing over and seeing her face so alive with excitement and concentration made him feel strange and warm.

Wait. Her lips weren’t usually that red, were they? And her cheeks, while always a little flushed when she was excited, seemed more pink. Geralt frowned, baffled. He’d seen other women do that, too. How did they do it? He’d never asked, because he hadn’t really cared, but it looked… pretty, especially with her pink-and-white outfit.

“Geralt!” Lambert yelled from downstairs. “Hurry up!”

“I’ll be back to take your bowl,” Geralt promised as he stood.

Jaskier, who was only a few bites in, hummed agreement and shot him a grateful smile before returning to her work. Geralt swallowed hard, then left the room.

It was a grueling week. When the Witchers weren’t doing the usual winter chores and training, Geralt was keeping his mouth shut tight when Lambert pestered him about that single slip-up, and checking in on Jaskier. She was building up to it, she said, getting tenser with every passing day. She would tell them in her own time.

So Geralt stayed silent on why she was “hiding” except to say, over and over, “He said he’s inspired and doesn’t want to get in our way.”

~

Eskel disappeared around mid-morning two weeks into winter. None of the others really minded; sometimes breaks were needed.

Except he came back within ten minutes, grabbed Geralt’s arm, and dragged him through Kaer Morhen until they were at the bottom of the stairs up to the living quarters. Geralt’s gut tightened as Eskel pointed up the stairs.

“When were you going to tell us he’s a crossdresser?” Eskel hissed.

Dread became anger, and Geralt growled back, “It’s not my place to say what he is or isn’t. Why were you sneaking around up there?”

“I wanted a nap and I heard him crying but when I opened the door he was in a _skirt_ , holding a pair of leggings. He looked scared so I shut the door again and left.”

Geralt rubbed his face with his hands, then snarled, “Why didn’t you at least _knock_?”

Eskel opened his mouth to reply… then closed it, looking sheepish. “I forgot,” he admitted.

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You forgot,” he repeated flatly.

“It’s not like we ever knock when it’s just the four of us.” Eskel shifted his weight awkwardly. “Uh… should I apologize to him?”

“Yes. Let me talk to him first,” Geralt ordered, and stomped up the stairs.

Jaskier didn’t answer his knock, so he called, “Jaskier? It’s Geralt. Can I come in?”

After a few moments, Jaskier opened the door. She really did look like she’d been crying—and she was wearing her blue suit instead of the pink dress she’d been preferring lately.

“What did he say?” Jaskier asked, his voice thick.

“He asked if you were a crossdresser,” Geralt answered, feeling suddenly ill at ease. Why had Jaskier been crying? “Can I come in, or do you want to be alone?”

Jaskier wiped his eyes on his sleeve and stepped out of the way so Geralt could come in. When the door was closed again, Jaskier hugged Geralt tightly.

“I don’t want to be like this,” he whispered. “I don’t want to be different.”

And fuck, did Geralt understand that. So he hugged back, and let Jaskier cry on his shoulder, and thought about how he was going to threaten Eskel to make sure he kept his mouth shut.

Jaskier’s tears trailed off after a bit, and he just kept his face buried in Geralt’s shoulder for several minutes, before finally saying quietly, “I’m still a she.”

Geralt nodded. “Do you want me to tell them?”

“No. I will. Tomorrow.”

“All together?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

~

Jaskier chose breakfast. Geralt helped her practice how to say it, and watched in increasing worry as Jaskier got more tense, until she was actually trembling and Geralt had to hold her hand to help ground her as they left Geralt’s room and went down to the kitchen.

The others looked up at them as they walked in, and Geralt didn’t even bother attempting to pull his hand away, not when Jaskier was holding on so tightly.

“I won’t apologize for not saying anything earlier,” Jaskier prefaced bluntly, and swallowed hard before continuing. “I’m… not actually a man. Not all the time. I’m… both.”

The three Witchers at the table stared at her blankly. Then Eskel grinned, relieved, and said, “Oh, good. Now that’s been answered. Here, I already made you toast.” He pushed a plate of toast with melted cheese closer to the open seat beside him.

“Hold on a minute,” Lambert protested, eyebrows snapping together. “What the fuck does that mean, you’re both? Both a man and a woman? How does that even _work_?”

“One day,” Vesemir muttered, casting his pleading gaze skyward. “ _One day_ where they aren’t idiots to a guest.”

Jaskier was speechless, staring at the three Witchers in front of her with disbelief. Geralt squeezed her hand and snapped at Lambert, “It means what she said. She’s both, and sometimes one and sometimes the other.”

“But,” Lambert spluttered, still looking baffled and angry about it, “But that doesn’t—he—she still _looks_ like a man!”

“So what?” Jaskier retorted, finally finding her voice. “Looks can be deceiving, you should know that. Although thank you for correcting yourself.”

“Of course I did, I’m not an asshole!” Lambert looked around at the four incredulous stares around him and turned beet red.

“Can we just eat now?” Eskel asked.

“Yes. Budge up,” Jaskier told him, and when Eskel did, Jaskier pulled Geralt along with her, to sit next to her. He followed dutifully. He was very glad his family wasn’t being shitty. Well, except for Lambert. But he wasn’t nearly as bad as Geralt knew humans would be.

Breakfast was mostly talking about what had to be done that day, with Vesemir politely asking Jaskier if she would like to help with some of the repairs and Jaskier politely answering that she would be glad to, since she’d run out of things to write about. Lambert kept quiet, still casting Jaskier bewildered looks. Geralt had a sneaking suspicion Lambert wanted to corner her and ask her questions.

So when they all stood, put their dishes in the sink, and trooped out of the kitchen, Geralt gripped Lambert’s shoulder and held him back, ignoring Lambert’s aborted snarl.

“If you’re thinking of giving her shit,” Geralt began in a low voice, “I want you to know that she has a dagger and knows how to use it, and I will _not_ take your side. That being said, if you _must_ talk to her, do not intentionally upset her, do not tell her she’s wrong in any sense of the word, and if she gets angry, apologize and _walk away_. Are we clear?”

Lambert gaped at him for a long moment. Then he nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Good.” Geralt let go and walked away as if nothing had happened.

It was a few nights later that Geralt was returning to his room after getting a drink when he heard whispering, and saw that his door was open. He immediately flattened against the wall and crept closer, listening sharply. That was Lambert and Jaskier talking.

“But how do you _know_?” Lambert hissed. “How do you _know_ what being a man feels like?”

“How do you know if you _don’t_ feel like a man?” Jaskier replied quietly.

Silence. Geralt could smell fear, now—fear with Lambert’s personal scent overlaying it. He blinked, startled. Lambert was scared?

“I don’t know,” Lambert answered softly, sounding surprised. “I… don’t know how I feel.”

“Have you ever felt uncomfortable with being referred to as a man?” Jaskier asked.

“No… but… I’d be pissed if anyone referred to me as a woman. Because I’m not a woman.”

“Is there an absence of connection to womanhood?”

“Well, yes.”

“Is there that same absence of connection to manhood?”

Another pause. And then Lambert replied, even more softly, “Yes.”

“So maybe you’re neither. There’s nothing wrong with that. If I’m both, it follows that there are people who are neither.”

“But—but I _look_ like a man.”

“No, you look like yourself. I was never very good at philosophy, but a lot of my friends at university liked to muse about what makes people who they are. Do you truly feel like your gender is tied to how you look?”

“...No.” There was a tone like dawning realization in Lambert’s voice. “No, I don’t.”

“Then it isn’t.” Jaskier sounded like she was smiling. “Your feelings are truer than what the world tells you. You should go to bed and sleep on it. Geralt should be back soon.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Geralt found himself smiling a little. It had been a long time since Lambert had thanked anyone and meant it. So Geralt leaned his shoulder against the wall and waited, and when Lambert spotted him while slipping out of his room, Geralt nodded and said quietly, “Good night, Lambert.”

“Yeah,” Lambert muttered gruffly, and hurried back to his own room.

Geralt walked in grinning, just as Jaskier was snuggling down under the heavy wool blankets again. “You heard?” Jaskier asked curiously.

“Yes.” Geralt slid into bed too and squeezed Jaskier’s hand gently for a moment. “Thanks for talking to him.”

“Mm-hm. He’ll be fine.” Jaskier turned over on her side and wrapped her arm around Geralt’s. “Maybe he’ll want to talk again later.”

“Probably. He’s a rash bastard, but he still takes his time when he can.” Geralt hesitated, then asked, “How do you change your face colors?”

Jaskier burst into giggles and muffled herself against his bicep, then lifted her head, grinning at him. She was really pretty in the light of the stars and moon through the window. “You’ve never heard of makeup?” she asked.

“No,” Geralt answered, frowning. “What’s that?”

“It’s for one’s face. I only have lip-paint and blusher, but there’s all different kinds of makeup, in all different colors. I’ll show you in the morning, and next time we go into a town with a cosmetics supply shop.” She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. “But for now, we should probably both sleep.”

“Yes,” Geralt agreed, turning his head just enough to feel the heat from Jaskier’s head on his face. She smelled like flowers and stone dust and ink and herself and Geralt. It was a good smell. A _right_ smell.

He tried not to think about that.

~

“He said I can tell you, but not the others.”

Geralt nodded. “That he’s neither?”

“Yes,” Jaskier replied, and finished applying his lip-paint. He’d announced to Geralt that morning that he was going to be bold and wear makeup as a man. Geralt had tried and failed to disguise his intense interest in how, exactly, makeup was applied, so Jaskier had laughed and was now showing him. “Poor Lambert. He has a lot of feelings and he doesn’t know how to talk about it. Then again, all of you Witchers do. I _will_ get through to all of you, one day. Odes to all four of the Wolves of Kaer Morhen! The entire continent shall hear of your kindness and strength! Pass me my compact?”

Geralt did so, while objecting, “We don’t need ‘odes’, we need people to pay us, and not piss in our beer. Where did you even get that?”

“Oh, I bought it a few years ago. Didn’t wear it regularly until last year, though. This shade is probably a little paler than would look best on me, but the light wasn’t the best in that shop.” He wiped stray powder off his ear and turned to grin at Geralt. Geralt forced down the sudden urge to touch Jaskier’s face, or his lips, to see if they felt different with that color on them. “Would you like to try it?” he asked wickedly.

Geralt shook his head immediately and scooted out of arm’s reach, making Jaskier laugh.

He was laughing more, lately. Eskel had been caught inspecting his skirts while everyone else had been busy, feeling the fabrics and looking extremely puzzled. When pressed, he had admitted that he wanted to know what good wool felt like, and was surprised that it was so soft. Lambert still cornered Jaskier sometimes to ask him seemingly unrelated questions about thoughts and identity, always too far away for his exact words to be heard, but he was less agitated and more thoughtful, though no less snide and bastardy. Vesemir insisted on teaching Jaskier tricks with daggers, and how to draw from a thigh- or hip-sheath instead of just from his boot, since it's harder to reach your boots with long skirts in the way.

And Geralt was finding it harder and harder to push away thoughts of how beautiful, or handsome, or amusing, or talented, or eager, or kind, Jaskier was. Until the night before their leave-taking, when Geralt allowed himself to look at Jaskier, tangled in the blanket and snoring softly, and think that he was a good person and Geralt was in love with him.

Then he fell asleep too and forgot about that thought.

**Author's Note:**

> *shoves the comment button into your hands and runs*


End file.
